


(In the Morning it Comes) Heaven Sent a Hurricane

by plentyofmalk



Series: Framework AU [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, but also hope?, just in time to be negated by canon, spoilers through 4x15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 20:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plentyofmalk/pseuds/plentyofmalk
Summary: She absolutely hates that they’re gone, because at least the wounds served a reminder that she’s real. That somewhere, there’s a world that’s not perfect, but still theirs. Now, she looks down and sees a body that’s undoubtedly hers and yet so obviously not. She’s an decoy in this world in the same way that Fitz (not Fitz, never Fitz) was in theirs -- planted to blend in amongst friends who would rather assume she doesn’t exist.





	

Everything hurts.

Her throat, weak from disuse, gives out under the attempts of her screams, causing breathless coughs to rise from her lungs. The skin of her lips are so dry that they split with little effort, and the first thing Jemma can recall tasting is her own blood dripping onto her tongue.

Confusion clouds her mind, and at the moment all she can process is that she’s in pain, it’s dark, and she’s trapped. That is, until she presses her hand forward and feels something akin to silk underneath her fingertips. That’s when she realizes she’s dead. Or, was. Or, was, but is going to be again if she doesn’t _get out_. Adrenaline kicks in as her world narrows down to the 30-odd cubic feet around her in which she is currently buried alive.

While her mind buzzes with numbers, calculating exactly how long she’s going to be able to survive off of the oxygen available to her, she claws at the fabric as fast as she can. She nearly sobs in relief at the feeling of threads finally tearing, but refrains as best she can (the math is done, she can’t afford to celebrate). There’s still a long way to go and so little to go off of, she knows, but the satisfying _rip_ pushes her forward.

She has to keep moving forward. She has to live. She has to get to Fitz.

She kicks with little success, before bringing one knee up to connect with the lid. The move only causes sharp pain to travel down her leg. So she continues to rely on her fists. Her muscles burn, her knuckles bleed, and Jemma’s never known a relief quite like the first clump of earth falling onto her chest. With more effort, soon more dirt rushes in, falling into her mouth and obstructing her vision, and she continues to fight until her hands are able to make purchase on the grass above her.

With her arms ready to give out, Jemma uses her legs to boost herself up to the surface, gagging on the soil she inhales with her first taste of fresh oxygen. 

Minutes pass, and although each intake still stretches her lungs past the point of comfort, and her ribs ache at the accommodation, slowly her breathing returns to normal. Suddenly the idea of considering anything about her current situation normal pierces the fog of waning adrenaline coursing through her, and she laughs. Quick, relentless laughter that reopens her lip and forms tears in her once dry eyes. She imagines how she must look: feet hanging over a hole in the ground, bloodied, covered in dirt, and laughing to the point of hysteria.

“What the hell!”

Jemma whips her head up, wincing from the pain it causes, to see the groundskeeper looking at her like a ghost. Which she supposes she might be.

“Sir,” she attempts, although the word dies on her tongue as another round of coughs rise from her chest. In lieu of speech, she raises a hand to him, silently pleading for help. He raises the clippers he’s holding in defense.

“Stay away from me, I swear to God.”

“Please,” the words finally fall from her tongue as she tries to de-escalate the rising panic from the man’s eyes, “there’s been a mistake.”

He points the clippers at her accusingly. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“I’m not anyone,” Jemma whispers, and thinks that in this world, it might be true. “Now please, I need w--” she flinches back at the threatening swipe he makes at her when she tries to stand. He has fire in his eyes, fear and hatred boiling in his irises. She knows a bad situation when she sees it, so instead of pleading with the man, she runs.

“They’ll find you, Inhuman!” He yells, and she barely has time to process the threat before he adds, “Hydra will find you!”

She doesn’t stop until the rendezvous point.

* * *

“Simmons? Simmons, please tell me you’re here.” Daisy calls out into the darkness, duffel bag hoisted over her shoulder. What used to be The Playground is nothing more than an abandoned building in this world. Which, after all she’d come to realize since entering the Framework, seems fitting.  


“Daisy?” She finally hears, and the pain in her friend’s voice still doesn’t prepare her for the sight of Jemma Simmons crouched in a nearby corner, looking at her with muddy tear tracks leading down to a hesitant smile.

“Oh.” It’s not an intelligent response, but it’s all Daisy can muster when taking in the tattered sleeves and open cuts that mar her hands.

“That bad, huh?” Jemma jokes, hollow and distant. When she wipes at the moisture pooling at her eyes, she sees the beginnings of deep, purpling bruises from the base of her palm down through her wrist. It reminds Daisy so much of the injuries she sustains when using her powers to long without her gauntlets.

“It’s… Jesus, what is wrong with this world?” Daisy mutters, springing to action and coming to crouch down in front of her. “Here, I brought whatever I could think of that you might need.” From her duffel, she removes a plethora of supplies to sanitize and treat her wounds: hydrogen peroxide, gauze and tweezers. When she pulls out a bottle of water, Jemma snatches from her hand before she can set it down and nearly chokes on the force of her gulps. Daisy watches as she swishes a mouthful of liquid in her mouth before spitting it out as far away as she can lean, before coming back to finish it off.

This time when Jemma speaks, she sounds infinitely better. “How did you know?”

Daisy taps her fingers on her knees, not sure where to even begin. She supposes there’s no right order to any of it. “I saw it on the news.” At her friend’s questioning glance, she continues. “I turned the TV on this morning. I figured that was the best way to see what was going on in the world, you know? See what life is like when you take the red pill?”

She knows Simmons is only pretending to understand the reference as she nods and takes another bottle of water from her graciously. 

“But, uh, there was a story about a rogue Inhuman. Which, I thought we were treated like crap back in the real world, but let me tell you, the Framework has really kicked it up a notch. Also I’m not. Inhuman, that is. Or maybe I am, and I haven’t gone through terrigenesis, I don’t know. I’m getting off track.” She takes a deep breath to refocus. “They talked to the guy at the cemetery about what happened, showed the... _grave_ and everything. Then it cut to your picture and I…” she stops, taking the chance to look Simmons in the eye as she processes. “Are you, I mean… _how_?”

Jemma blinks once, slowly, before answering. “I’m becoming somewhat of an expert at being buried alive, I think.”

A thick silence falls between the two of them, and in the quiet, Simmons plucks the bottle of peroxide from the floor and begins to saturate a cotton pad. Daisy watches off and on, sure that Simmons probably doesn’t need an audience watching while she repairs herself once again. Absentmindedly, she shuffles to sit by her side, so that they’re shoulder to shoulder in the increasing darkness.

“This is a dumb question, because of course you’re not okay, but...are you...okay?”

Simmons is staring down at her hands, the knuckles of her left bubbling over on contact with the peroxide. She doesn’t flinch at the sensation, instead wiping the cotton across the scrapes over and over until all that’s left is raw, disinfected skin.

Then, for the second time in as many days, she breaks. Only this time, there is no question about who is real and who isn’t, so when Daisy wraps her arms around her shoulders and cries with her, there is no resistance. There’s only two people, trying to transfer strength to one another.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been so focused on me.” Jemma says after the tears subside, using another piece of cotton to swipe across her face in an attempt to clean up.

She laughs, clearing her throat. “Yeah Simmons, I didn’t wanna say anything, but you sure do know how to steal an entrance.” And it feels good to see a genuine -- if small -- smile on the other woman’s face.

“Just please tell me you’ve had an easier time of it today than I have.”

Daisy hesitates. “Well, I guess it depends on your definition of ‘easier’.”

* * *

Daisy had been a saint to bring the supplies that she did, otherwise she was sure she would be facing an infection in the coming days. Among the medical supplies, she had also brought along several changes of clothes and a hastily packed bag of toiletries. Now, in the bathroom of the motel room Daisy booked for her (‘ _You can’t live in this base, Simmons, there’s probably not even running water in here._ ’) she finally has the opportunity to change out of the clothes she was buried in. It’s when she looks in mirror that she notices it.  


The most painful thing about the wide, throbbing ache in her leg, is that it’s no longer there. There’s no rip in her denim from a knife, no split skin on her temple from the force of a paint can. There’s no burn down her throat when she swallows, no bruising from the five fingers that had wrapped themselves around her neck, causing it.

Instead, she’s covered in a plethora of new wounds, still raw and healing, but cleaned and wrapped at the very least. And even though she’s not aching (pun unavoidable) for more hurt than she already feels, she absolutely hates that they’re gone.

Because at least the wounds served a reminder that she’s real. That somewhere, there’s a world that’s not perfect, but still theirs. Now, she looks down and sees a body that’s undoubtedly hers and yet so obviously not. She’s an decoy in this world in the same way that Fitz ( _not Fitz, never Fitz_ ) was in theirs -- planted to blend in amongst friends who would rather assume she doesn’t exist.

She still doesn’t know how she died. Daisy had unpacked her laptop once they entered the room and went out in search for answers that she wasn’t at liberty to poke around for in her own home. _With Ward_ , Jemma shudders to think. County records list her cause of death as simply ‘ _accident_ ’, and a death date of November 8th, 2013. There’s nothing written about her in the paper back home, that they can find available online anyways. Her existence boils down to that: _accident_.

She wonders if it was the Chitauri virus. The date lines up, and both she and Daisy agree it would explain why there was no news of her cause of death. But all it really tells her is that Fitz wasn’t there with her, fixing the problem to find an antiserum. Which makes her think he likely never knew her at all. Because she’s not convinced that there’s any universe where they find each other and don’t stick together, the whole damn time.

But of course, this Fitz isn’t her Fitz, as they readily discovered after Daisy and she hunkered over the computer screen. Just searching his name brought up an array of articles.

_The Future of Tech: How Leopold Fitz is Revolutionizing the Industry that Raised Him_

_Leopold Fitz to Launch Fitz Fiber Optic_

_A View From the Top: Leo Fitz Gives the Interview You’ve Been Waiting For_

_Fitz Enterprise Signs Contract with Hydra Securities._

The headlines paint a familiar, but still so different picture of the Fitz she knows and loves. Still a scientist as heart, this Fitz is shrouded in wealth and pretense. He gives interviews, for God’s sake. Fitz, _her Fitz_ , couldn’t string more than two sentences together during their first year of knowing each other. He certainly didn’t give interviews and tips to young hopefuls on ‘How to Balance Your Business with Your Personal Affairs’.

And he would certainly never align himself with Hydra. Her Fitz is good, and _tries_ , and somewhere, buried deep in this programmed version of the man she intends to say yes to, he is reachable. And if she knows one thing, it’s that there’s no amount of coding or cosmos that could keep them from finding their way back to each other.

And so, dead or not, Jemma Simmons keeps living.

**Author's Note:**

> This was all part of a one shot that was clearly not going to be done before the end of the hiatus, so I condensed it down. I had intended for a whole second side from Fitz's POV (that's partially written already) so I'm leaving this as a potential series just in case I finish it.


End file.
